There are those who would say I’m dirty. My last
shower lost in time’s hot moisture. My last shave
sharply apparent. The quality of my presentation
dismissible amongst the plastic plates and trampled
cardboard of the dust drenched city streets, where

moral character is second to house number, bank
balance, and suit pieces. My greasy mop unfit to wash
exhaustion from the purchased floors of tired travelers. They
themselves expecting the squeaky clean demeanor
of quality service to grease their squeaky wheels. My

sprawling ears and multitasked smile giving them every
opportunity to lament through the lingering sensation
of humanity they can’t seem to remove from the holes in
their head, even through their constructed, plastic barriers.
Their talk of the obvious reality they’ve settled for does

nothing to change the fact I don’t know how to change
the linens in their room. My eyes sullen, still bright
from the hopes of witnessing another fantastic dawn on
the confluence, soft, flowing with the power to shape
nation’s histories, so far away from the rising tide of their

speech. Most would admit, themselves, to not bathing
in its apparently unending magnificence. They feel they
are not dirtied by it, simply because of their distance from
it, and still they languish in the spewing filth of their wasted,
radiated, polluted, and apparently unending flow of words.

We are here now because the trepidatious braved the grim
uncharted to find such an excellent fortification. Centuries
later my silence is under attack at all hours. The weak
ammunition assaulting the battlements which took lifetimes
to build to Heaven, foundations forged in the pit of survival,

piled for eons with so many invisible books, swaying in the
simple harmonic motion of so many unnecessarily fired shots.
The war is over. Humans won. But humanity on the front lines
is too busy reloading its musket to read the messenger’s face,
too enthralled by headlines to empathize with the shelled rubble

of ancient Rome, laughing with closed eyes at reality star’s
tweets, not realizing the dark hue and iron taste is the blood of
the red wheel barrow rusting, and it leaks through the cracks
in the dried skin of their clawing, worn thumbs, having bit
their tongues clean off long ago on some side mouthed insult

of someone they, apparently, love, or someone they never saw
again, wondering why no one listens to their volumed attempts
for attention, waving their right to embrace silence, lacquered,
thrashing about in putrid piles of sharp, infected, single use
words, despite the surgeon general’s warning, plunging them
into the chipping asphalt like so many municipal Marches
revealing cobblestone in its beaten actuality for miles and
miles but getting no closer to where they wished they were,
horns blaring in the rush hour red light grid lock mad
at the mechanic, on his time, trying to fix their blown tires, hands

slick in their teenaged spray, lubricated, ignoring the effectiveness
of liberal use. They wouldn’t use a whole tube of toothpaste for
one brushing. That’s wasteful. Or a whole tank of hot water, and
a bottle soap to wash the dishes. Well guess what? I do.

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